Office vending machines are the prime area to communicate with the future robot leaders of this world (see: this, this, this, this – honestly this blog is basically pizza, cats, and my fear of the robot apocalypse coupled with leaving notes on vending machines).

Remember when I found the quality control sticker on my person? I was convinced that the robots are coming to take over? This might have been met with head shaking, or consternation pertaining to my paranoia – potential schizophrenia?

I’ve always suspected that earth was mere moments away from the robots becoming self-aware. There are suspicious “vending” machines at my job, which I believe might be agents of robot destruction just awaiting the robot apocalypse. Since I live in fear of the work vending machines and the coming carnage, I’ve attempted to become friends with the robots (or alien robots? Maybe a Transformer sorta thing going on here?) and be their vessel once they are sentient.

And the day is nigh. Because when I woke up this morning this was on me:

Hm? What the fuck is that on me?

Generally, outside of my many tattoos I don’t put any stickers on my person unless they are of the Lisa Frank variety

Recognize greatness, bitches!

This is not Lisa Frank. The above sticker is something all together UNLIKE Lisa Frank.

That is a QUALITY ASSURANCE sticker. The robots have assured that I am quality. Also, note the empty toilet paper holder – I am always too lazy to put the actual roll in there.

Well I passed the robot quality assurance test: I’ve passed their first round.

Which can only mean that the day of the robot takeover is closer. I am a-okay in their book but you should probably start sucking up to your own vending machines

A while ago I had shared a picture of the inside of my fridge, stocked with the essentials. I would hyperlink to that entry, but I don’t know how and I don’t feel like looking it up. Essentially it was a sad picture of an empty fridge with a tall boy in it; look through the posts: it was quality stuff.

Let’s re-visit the once empty fridge, brimming with the potential to be filled…

…With garbage.

I don’t really know the genesis of the garbage fridge, though I believe it started inauspiciously enough. Perhaps I had some leftover pizza that I kept in the box and would pull out slice by slice, until the only thing left was an empty box. And then, of course, I am massively busy working a soul sucking job and memorizing the “rap” part of Spice Girls’ Wannabe

Slam your body down and wind it all around!

I am way too busy to say, buy a garbage can.

who needs one? I have a fridge?

Like most things in my life that spiral wildly out of control, I would make myself daily promises. “Today I will clean out my fridge.” “Today I will buy a garbage can.” “Today I will pay off my creditors.” However, as day slowly ebbs into night, thoughts would change to things like, “if I leave the remains of this microwave dinner on the counter the cats will get it…I’ll temporarily put it in the fridge.”

And then a slow evolution occurs wherein the fridge becomes a warzone of garbage; where do I put actual food? However, a fun game also occurs.

I like to call it, “what did I use to be?”

Who knows?!

According to the sell by date, this just celebrated its sixth month birthday. Happy birthday, baby, oh the places you’ll go!

Trying to fight the tides of the fridge garbage seems as futile as, say, trying to get the earth to change its rotation. Meaning, it might happen one day, but that will only be because the mold taking over the inside will become sentient and want a change of scenery. Who knows? I might be housing the future creatures to roam this world after the robot apocalypse renders humans obsolete.